Please Come Back
by Ulura
Summary: When Sherlock returns emotions run high and John says something he doesn't really mean, but because of it, Sherlock may never see the man again. "I didn't really die!" "I wish you had." Friendship or pre-slash if you want it. Warnings for dark throughs and mentions of suicide.
1. Prologue

**Can be read as deep friendship of slash, it depends on what you personally want :)**

* * *

Three years.

Just thinking about it made Sherlock feel tired. Three years he had been hunting down the members of Moriarty's network.

Three years of living on scraps and airport food.

Three years of terrible motels and sleeping in back alleys.

Three years of disguises, hair dyes, ill-fitting clothes and fake accents.

And worst of all, three years of having to depend on Mycroft.

He hardly felt like himself anymore.

But now it was over, it was finally, finally over. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand assassin was dead, Sherlock had put a bullet in his brain only 24 hours ago in Venice. All through these past three years Sherlock had been stoic, he never smiled, he never cried, he never showed any emotion of any kind. Except when he thought of home and that was only when he was curled up alone and trying to sleep.

When he'd shot Moran he'd laughed, not out of some sort of twisted happiness that he'd just taken a life, but out of pure happiness that it was finally over. He could go home. He could get his old coat back, start getting cases again, eat some proper food and most importantly, he could see John.

Oh, how he'd missed John.

A few months in to his endeavor Sherlock had requested his brother send him John's dog tags, that way John could be with him in a small way. He'd also asked for regular updates, but no pictures, he couldn't stand looking at his friend. It made Sherlock miss him too much.

John had almost gotten married but then his wife-to-be, Mary, had left him for somebody younger and more whole. Though he knew it would of pained his friend greatly he was glad, that woman clearly had no idea how lucky she had been.

Right now he was back in London for the first time in years, riding in the familiar black cabs through the brightly lit streets. He'd gotten a new dark trench coat, dyed his hair back to it's natural colour, though it needed to grow out a bit more and finally he felt like himself again.

He'd already visited Mycroft, explained how the job was finished and practically flew into the first cab he saw. John still lived at Baker Street and Sherlock was determined to join him.

-oOo-

John felt empty, he'd felt empty for three years, since the day his friend had stepped off that building and smashed into a thousand pieces, just like his heart. He felt as if Sherlock was an extension of his own body and missing him was like missing a limb. He didn't feel complete anymore.

For months he didn't leave the flat, he'd spent days at a time just sitting in his chair looking into the empty one opposite himself. Wanting nothing more than to will Sherlock back into existence. Even when he did leave his limp flared up terribly, it was even worse than before now.

The first night he wasn't even sure how he'd gotten home, Lestrade probably drove him but that didn't matter. He'd gone to Sherlock's room, locked himself inside and promptly collapsed on the bed, it took only seconds for the tears to form.

_Why?! _

He'd thought desperately _Why did he have to lie? Take his own life?_

If he'd just been there! He might of stopped him, maybe he could of stopped all of it if he had just been a good friend. He'd called him a machine for goodness sakes! Every day John thanked God that he'd gotten a chance to speak with Sherlock before he...died.

He could never live with himself if the last thing he'd said to his best friend was an insult. Still it didn't change anything, he still felt the guilt on his conscience. The hollow pain in his chest.

Mary had made things better for a while, he had something else to live for. But there was no danger, no excitement, all the colour in his life was dull and grey. Eventually she had tired of the night terrors and finding her fiance sobbing in the bathroom late at night. She'd found somebody else and John had been cast out into the cold once more.

He'd contemplated suicide. More than once actually. The day he'd met Sherlock he was thinking about using his browning to put a bullet through his brain and end it all. Bu by the end of that day the thoughts were gone.

They had come back with a vengeance.

He had ignored them, or at least tried but the dark voices of his brain were getting louder and louder every day. Right now they were screaming at him as he tried to sleep.

_"You're supposed to be a solider! A Doctor! Yet you couldn't even save your best friend. You can't even walk properly. You're useless, a cripple, nobody wants you anyway! Why not do the world a favor!"_

He rolled over and tried to push the dark thoughts away but they were persistent, and true.

_"Sherlock never needed you. He just kept you around to stroke he ego. He didn't care about you, nobody does!"_

_Stop it, stop it..._

_"He drugged you for an experiment. He always left you behind. Face it you were just kidding yourself."_

_Just stop it!_

John tossed trying to focus his brain on more pleasant things, unfortunately, there was very little happiness in the veterans life to focus on.

_"He killed himself because of you."_

With a choked sob John jumped out of bed and grabbed a shirt and some jeans to get dressed. He wasn't going to be sleeping any time soon.

He made his way to the kitchen and started making tea, his hands were still shaking. He didn't really want tea but it gave his mind something else to focus on, keep the blackness from enveloping him completely.

Darkly he wondered how long he would be able to hold it back until he finally snapped and made use of the hand gun in his draw.

His ears pricked when he heard footsteps on the staircase.

It wasn't Ms. Hudson, these steps were quicker than her and besides, she was visiting her sister in the country at the moment.

_"She doesn't want to me around your ugly face."_

His brain jabbed at him, he shook the thoughts away.

Who ever it was paused at the landing outside his door, probably a burglar of some sort. John contemplated opening the door and fighting him off but found he simply didn't have the energy. He didn't have the energy for anything anymore.

Killed in a home invasion wasn't exactly exciting, but it would save him the trouble somewhere down the track. So he ignored the sound, took a sip of his tea, sat down in Sherlock's chair and waited.

The door opened.

"John?"

John felt the mug slip through his fingers and smash on the floor.

"N-no...that's not possible..."

Sherlock stood in front of him. He was skinnier, paler, his eyes had dark circles but it was him. He'd finally lost it, he was going mad and dreaming up his dead friend, Oh God.

"John I-"

John stood up, this was too much. Oh God he couldn't take this!

The apparition stepped forwards, John stepped back, he'd completely forgotten about the tea on the floorboards he felt himself slip. He didn't really feel the hit to his head, more heard the dull thunk it made when the table came into contact with his skull. The ghost yelled out his name and then everything was gone.

* * *

**That is one hell of a prologue...**

**This will be updated somewhere in the next few days :) Reviews are very very very welcome.**


	2. Tears

Sherlock had imagined John's reaction many times, ranging from the apocalyptically angry to sobbing like a child. All such scenarios however, involved John being conscious. Sherlock rushed to the older man's side and began to carefully examine his injury, he had a bad bump on the back of his head but was otherwise okay. Normally something like that would of resulted in a bad headache, but not unconsciousness.

Gently, the detective picked his friend up and placed him on the couch with the Union Jack pillow cushioning his head. Sherlock's eyes danced over his form taking in all the details.

_Lost quite a bit of weight, not purposefully, most likely forgets to eat at least once or twice a day._

_A shade paler than last time I saw him._

_Dark circles around the eyes but no worse than when I first met him. Nightmare have returned. _

_He stumbled backwards using his non preferred leg, his limp has returned. _

_Conclusion: John is not okay. _

Sherlock had just enough time to freeze in place as John came to, he had no idea what to say! So his body settled on becoming a statue.

John blinked a few times before his eyes came to rest of Sherlock's frozen features and then to Sherlock's great shock he chuckled.

"You'd think I'd remember killing myself." he muttered darkly, Sherlock felt what little blood he had in his face drain out.

John thought he was dead? That he'd killed himself? Mycroft hadn't mentioned John was contemplating...that. Sherlock's brain was suddenly assaulted with the image of John laying lifeless with his gun in his hand and blood soaking into the white sheets of his bed. He flinched at the thought.

"John you're not dead." Sherlock said finally, "Neither am I."

John's eyes widened as he inevitably remembers the events leading up to his current predicament. He shot up into the sitting position, rubbing the tender lump on the back of his head.

He then got up to face Sherlock slowly, eyes never leaving the mans face as if he were afraid Sherlock might disappear. Sherlock wasn't really sure what to do, there weren't exactly many WikiHow links on how to apologize to your friend after faking your death.

"Why?" John said finally, Sherlock almost flinched at how empty the voice sounded.

"I had to." Sherlock replied, "Moriarty had snipers on You, Lestrade and Ms. Hudson. I had to do it."

"So why didn't you come back?" John pleaded, "Why did you make me _watch_?"

"It had to be believe able, your grief as well." Sherlock muttered.

"Right..." John muttered.

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the floor, he was about to explain further when pain blossomed across his face and he realized John had just punched him.

"You utter bastard!" John yelled, "How could you?! How could you let me think you'd killed yourself? You could of told me! Given me a hint! Anything!"

"I told you it had to be-"

"Convincing!" John spat, "You put me through three years of hell for convincing!"

"You would of been killed." Sherlock whispered.

"I don't care! Anything would of been better than the last three years Sherlock!" John cried, "Do you have any idea how close I've come to putting a bullet through my brain because of what you did?!"

"I didn't know." Sherlock replied dejectedly, "I had to take down Moriarty's network, I couldn't tell you."

"I had to watch my best friend die Sherlock." John growled, "Did you forget that I suffer from PTSD? Did you not realize that seeing my best friend jump off a building and bleed out onto the pavement might create some issues for me!?"

"It was the only-"

"No it wasn't Sherlock! It was the easy way!"

"You think it was easy?" Sherlock yelled, "To leave behind everything and every one to hunt down all of Moriarty's men?"

"At least you weren't bored." John spat, "God Sherlock you were on the ground, b-bleeding everywhere! I f-felt your pulse."

John pushed the heels of his palms up into his eyes.

"Gods Sherlock there was so much blood..."

"But I didn't die." Sherlock reminded him softly.

John pulled his face out of his hands and glared at Sherlock with more hate than the detective thought the doctor capable of.

"I wish you had." He hissed.

And just like that the heart Sherlock Holmes had kept locked away, safely behind a wall of indifference, smashed into a thousand pieces.

No, smashed wasn't the right word. Smashed implied the pieces could be put back together again, it was more like his heart was being crushed. It would of hurt less if John had physically ripped his chest cavity open.

To his surprise he felt his eyes burn as tears began to well up within them. He barely even registered that he had turned around and run out the door, he practically flew down the stairs and out onto the street. All he could see was John's eyes, full of hatred, the image was burned into his brain.

He ignored the strange looks people gave him as he ran through the streets, he must of looked a wreak. He didn't care. He didn't even know where he was running to, just that he couldn't stop yet.

Finally he couldn't ignore the burning in his legs any longer and he skidded to a halt in a small alley, far away from Baker street. He pressed his hands into his eyes, willing the tears to stop.

He was Sherlock Holmes! He did not cry!

He tried to breath deeply but his breath shuddered every time he tried. Eventually he gave up and curled up against the wall, sitting on the ground and let the tears fall.

John hated him.

More than that he wished he was dead.

Sherlock dug his fingers into his curls and pulled. He was such a fool! What? Did he actually expect John to forgive him? To actually want him?

_'Nobody wants you. Nobody ever has and nobody ever will.' _Sherlock's thoughts jabbed at him cruelly.

It was true. His father had hated him, his mother thought him a freak until her dying day. Mycroft cared for him only out of some brotherly responsibility, he tolerated Sherlock he didn't love him. Lestrade liked him because he solved crimes, Ms. Hudson always complained about him, she was probably glad he was gone. Molly only helped because of her infatuation with him, she didn't even really want him, she loved the idea of him. The mysterious detective with the cheekbones and dark coat.

He'd never had a friend in his life. He'd long ago accepted that Sherlock Holmes simply wasn't cut out for friends.

But then came John.

Oh they bickered occasionally but John had accepted him. He'd wanted Sherlock. He'd stayed up waiting for him when he took a late case, he bandaged Sherlock's wounds when he got hurt, he made him eat and rest. All because he cared about him.

At least he had.

Three years of suffering and loneliness.

Sherlock sobbed silently in the alley.

It had all been for nothing.

No that wasn't true. He still preferred this reality to the one where his friends were dead. Even if they didn't consider him a friend, he thought of them that way. He was glad they were alive, even if John hated him.

Sherlock suddenly became aware of how tired he was. The last 48 hours had been hectic. Hunting down Moran, finally ending things, then riding the adrenaline high all the way back to London. His excitement over seeing John again had made it impossible to eat let alone rest. Now with all this emotional upheaval the exhaustion had finally caught up to him.

Normally his pride would never allow him to fall asleep in an alley but then again normally his pride would of stopped him from curling up in a ball and crying like a child. He slumped against the wall, eventually tipping and ending up on his side laying on the cold ground. He stared straight ahead at nothing, he couldn't focus his brain to save his life.

He knew that he was in a weakened state, no rest or food for days on end plus his numerous injuries from the past three years had weakened his body. Laying here, in an alley on a cold London night would not be good for him. But he didn't care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

-oOo-

As soon as the words had left his lips he regretted them. Of course he didn't wish Sherlock dead, he'd been praying the exact opposite for three years! He'd let his anger and bitterness get to him and then he'd taken it out on Sherlock.

For just a moment, he'd wanted Sherlock to feel all the pain and suffering he'd been feeling these last few years, oblivious to the fact that he already had.

John felt something in him break when he saw tears shining on Sherlock's eyes. The grey orbs that were usually so calm and collected were shining filled with nothing but utter betrayal. The doctor had never felt to wrenched in his life.

And then in a blink Sherlock was gone, out the door down the stairs and onto the street.

"Sherlock!" John yelled after him, thundering down the stairs, "Sherlock, wait! I didn't mean it!"

By the time he'd reached the street Sherlock was gone, most likely hadn't heard John yelling after him. John ran anyway, praying he was going in the right direction but he had no way of knowing. His limp was entirely forgotten, his cane had been left inside the flat but he didn't notice. He didn't care.

He had to find Sherlock before he did something stupid.

_'Idiot! He was back in your life for all of ten minutes and you chase him away!' _

Sherlock didn't handle emotions well, he could react in any way it was impossible to predict. He could become cold as stone or he could become a sobbing mess. John had no way of knowing. Either way he just had to find him!

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, not caring about how daft he looked, "Sherlock, please! Please come back! I didn't mean it!"

_'If anything happens to him it's your fault.'_

He looked everywhere, every alley he passed by, every shop and he double checked every face he went by. He checked all of Sherlock usual spots, Angelo's, the Chinese place they went to sometimes, Barts Hospital. He even tried calling Mycroft but the call rang out. He started pleading with CCTV cameras after that but it didn't help.

Sherlock had just disappeared.

Now John feared it might be for good.

* * *

**Angst and more angst!**

* * *

**As a side note, my friend runs a tumblr blog for fanfiction, story and author reviews, rec lists and stuff like that as well as gifset stories and art. But she had no followers so I promised her I'd do a little advertising for her.**

**She had 3 rec lists already and another 2 in the works. She even says that she will take review requests if you want your stories or art to get a little more attention once she has more followers.**

** : / / goddess sherlock recs . tumblr **

**Just take out the spaces**


	3. Delusion

Sherlock could feel somebody stroking their fingers through his hair. Before, he'd not been a fan of touching other people or vice versa but it had been so long since anybody had shown him the slightest bit of kindness. So, instead of flinching away, he enjoyed the sensation.

Suddenly he realized he wasn't in the alley anymore, he was laying on something soft under thick, warm blankets. He blinked his eyes open and found that he was in his own bed at Baker Street.

"How-?"

"Oh good you're awake."

Sherlock blinked, the rest of the room coming into focus to reveal John sitting beside him. It must of been him stroking his hair.

"Come on sit up."John smiled, "You look like a stick figure, you need to eat."

"What?" Sherlock sat up against the headboard, "You're not mad at me anymore?"

"Of course not." John chuckled, "Now come on, I made some of that risotto you love."

Sherlock's mouth watered at the thought, he loved John's risotto, it was one of the things he'd been dreaming about for three years.

"How did I get here?" Sherlock asked as John passed him a plate of food.

"I came and found you of course." John replied, "You know I would never just abandon you."

Sherlock felt a genuine smile tugging at his lips when suddenly there was a horrible screeching sound, tires skidding on asphalt and he jerked awake.

Sherlock almost sobbed when he saw the walls of the cold alley he'd collapsed in and realized he'd dreamed the entire scene. The sub-conscious could be cruel.

Groaning he heaved himself off the ground and blinked when his vision swum before him. He felt hot, very hot, but he was shaking. Fever. Sherlock had suffered through many infected wounds in his time away, he'd had no choice but to stitch himself up no matter how awkward the angle, which often resulted in sinking into his own mind for a few days while his body sweated the illness out.

This fever was more likely exhaustion, so if he got to a hotel or something and rested for a few days he could beat it easily. That wasn't what he wanted though.

What he wanted, was to go home to Baker Street and let John take care of him, he wanted his dream desperately.

The logical thing to do was to go to Mycroft, he'd have people who could help him but he couldn't stand coddling from anybody but his army doctor. He'd rather do things on his own.

Carefully he got to his feet and brushed the grime off his coat as best he could. London was a big city, it wouldn't take him long to find a hotel, hopefully one with a chemist nearby so he could buy some paracetamol or aspirin.

He pulled his collar up and walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, eventually he wandered into the more shady part of town. With his long coat he probably looked like a dealer in this neighborhood but he didn't care.

He found a cheap hotel and checked in, the room was small and of questionable cleanliness but it was still better than half the places he'd slept in while he was away. He just wanted to sleep, logically he knew he should eat first but he was too tired.

Collapsing on the bed he wondered what John was doing now. Was he looking for Sherlock? Did he feel bad about what he said? No, that was a fantasy. John wasn't looking for him. He was probably in the flat drinking tea and reading a newspaper. God what he wouldn't do for a cup of tea right now.

His stomach gave a growl of protest as he closed his eyes, the pain was becoming a nuisance now. Too sick and tired to go out t find food he walked over to the table where a basket of biscuits had been sat and practically inhaled them all. They were dry and stale but he didn't care, it was food.

This, if anything made him feel worse, now his stomach had gotten a taste it was demanding more food. The detective fell back on the bed and wrapped his arms around his torso and moaned. He felt awful, this wasn't how things were supposed to go! He was supposed to be home at last, not in another grimy hotel living on out of date snack food.

_'Maybe this is my life now' _He thinks darkly, flopping down on the bed and trying to sleep.

_'What if this is all there is?'_

-oOo-

John dialed Mycroft's number for what felt like the hundredth time. Sherlock had to be with him, Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock go off on his own in such a state. Finally, finally, Mycroft answered.

"John I understand that you are angry but-"

"Is he safe?" John blurted out.

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft asked seriously, "He's not unstable if that's what you mean?"

"Oh good." John breathed, "You've got to tell him I didn't mean what I said, it was the heat of the moment and I was taken by surprise-"

"Wait, Sherlock's not with you now?" Mycroft questioned, John felt his heart sink.

"No, I thought he was with you." The doctor replied despite his dry mouth.

"Why on earth would you assume such a thing?" Mycroft scoffed, "He demanded I let him go to you as soon as it was possible."

John felt the guilt building within him.

"He came here, w-we fought, I...I did something really stupid Mycroft." John stammered, "He ran off, I've been searching for him all night."

Silence.

"How could you keep this from me?" John asked finally, "Don't try and lie to me, I know you knew he was alive. How could you do that to me?"

"It needed to be-"

"If you say 'convincing' I will scream." John sighed.

"John my brother does not wound easily, what did you do?" Mycroft asked flatly.

"I said...I told him that I wished he was dead." John chocked out, God how could he of said that.

There was more silence from Mycroft.

"I will locate him." The politician said finally.

"What can I-?"

"You've done enough."

The line went dead.

-oOo-

Sherlock awoke as the sun was setting, he'd slept all day. Wincing as he got to his feet he was pleased to discover his fever was gone, but his body was still weak and starving. Without really thinking about it he left the hotel and dove into a connivence store, using the pocket change he found within his coat to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. Both of which he downed much too quickly once he'd turned the corner.

His stomach gave a lurch as the nausea grew but he managed to keep the food down. Breathing deeply he felt his brain come online for the first time in 48 hours. Finally he could think again, which he discovered was a bad thing. He didn't want to think. Thinking made him remember John and what he'd said. More importantly, how he'd said it. With finality, like it was a fact, the same way people said the sky is blue.

John wanted him dead.

He wished Sherlock had hit the pavement for real.

Now, part of Sherlock wished he had as well.

He had no choice, he had to go back to his life before John. Something he thought undoable. He was going to be alone again.

Well if he was going to do this he was going to do this right, good thing he was in a shadier part of town.

First things first he visited an ATM and withdrew a few hundred pounds from the account Mycroft set up. After that it took him less than two hours to find a dealer and purchase a small vial of cocaine, seven percent solution. He also managed to throw an extra tenner in and buy some fresh needles.

He knew this was wrong.

He'd been clean for six years.

He knew if Mycroft knew, he'd be disappointed, probably lock him up in some rehab centre but right now he didn't care. He wanted John really, he wanted companionship and dare he say it, he wanted to feel loved. Cocaine couldn't do that but it could give him the illusion of bliss, at least for a few hours.

Right now he'd take anything he could get.

It was like slipping back into a long forgotten routine, he knew exactly what to do without thinking about it. Fill the needle, tie his belt around the arm to find the vein, slip the needle under his skin and push the plunger down.

He sighed with relief as the drug entered his system, he'd forgotten how good it felt.

The world lit up, the colours became brighter, the shadows sharper, everything was clear and glowing. Sherlock grinned as the euphoria took over.

Why on earth did he ever give this up?

* * *

**Oh dear, what do you think will happen next? **

**I know, but you might not like it... ;)**


	4. Please

He should of answered his phone after John called the first time. Mycroft had been under the assumption Sherlock had confessed and the good doctor wished to yell at Mycroft for letting him sink so far if he knew Sherlock was alive. He never considered that John would tell Sherlock he wished him dead. Now his brother could be anywhere, doing anything and that made the politician feel as if there were ice in his stomach that refused to melt.

The dread solidified when he checked the bank account he'd set up for Sherlock to use while he was away and found it had recently lost five hundred pounds. Sherlock was already one step ahead of him. He shut down the account as fast as he could but he already knew what Sherlock would of spent a good portion of the money on.

Damn his little brother!

Damn John Watson!

Despite his cold front Sherlock was only a child in many ways. A child who, deep down, wanted to be loved and cared for but didn't know how to achieve it. Cocaine was his escape for many years, it forced his brain to stop thinking so darkly, gave him synthetic happiness.

After Mycroft had finally gotten him clean Sherlock had been alright for a while, but the temptation was still there. Then came John and suddenly Sherlock was given the affection he had been starved for. Simple comments like "Brilliant!" and "Fantastic!" made Sherlock day though he pretended not to care. Mycroft had seen first hand how much John's praise had meant to his little brother.

He had to find him before he over dosed.

-oOo-

Coming down from the high the first thing he felt was soul crushing disappointment in himself that he'd returned to this. A dependency on a substance. Pathetic.

His body was already aching for another hit but he ignored it. He had to try and limit himself to once a day or his money would be gone too soon, no doubt Mycroft wouldn't be lending him anymore any time soon.

Before he could stop himself he was imagining what John and Lestrade would think of him if they knew. The inspectors disappointed face appeared in his mind followed by John's, it looked not only disappointed but angry as well.

He sighed, what was he supposed to do with himself now? Lestrade wouldn't give him a case now that he'd started using again, hell, even if he wasn't he'd probably hate him too. He couldn't go to Baker Street, he couldn't go to Mycroft.

He was out of options.

And yet, he wanted to see Lestrade. He'd missed him too, not nearly as much as John but he'd always had a fondness for the inspector who'd given him a chance when no one else would. He'd forgiven Sherlock for using once before, surely he could do it again? Sherlock just wanted to hear somebody tell him that what he did was okay, that he did the right thing.

_"I forgive you."_

That's all he wanted. That and to be home at Baker Street with John once more, solving crimes together and watching crap telly.

A small amount of fear lingered in his heart though, he couldn't make himself go to Lestrade's because of it. He wasn't sure he could take two lots of rejection. The cocaine was still in his system though, only just though, he had a few more hours until he'd need to shoot up again. The lingering drug gave him courage and he headed out the door toward Lestrade's home.

-oOo-

Lestrade was sick of day time tv, it was so dull. Ever since he'd almost lost his job three years ago the head of Scotland Yard had been putting him on the worst shifts possible as punishment. He had wanted to fire him completely but the junior officers stood up for him, bless them, saying that he had in fact solved the most cases despite Sherlock's help.

It still meant he had to work all night though and spend his days slumped on a sofa watching Ellen.

He was surprised when he heard somebody knocking on his door, nobody visited him, ever. The only time he was free was in the middle of the week, durning the day when everybody else was working.

He thought perhaps it was John, hoped really. The man had been teetering on the edge for months now, Greg constantly feared going to visit and finding him dead on the couch with a bullet in his brain.

What he had not expected was a detective who thought died years ago.

"Sherlock." He breathed.

"Please don't pass out like John did."

Well that is a hell of a first greeting.

Without thinking the inspector stepped back and let Sherlock inside, jeez he was thin, thinner than he was and he was never healthy to begin with.

"What the hell Sherlock?" Lestrade growled, "How the-where have you been all this time?!"

"Dismantling Moriarty's network." Sherlock replied in monotone.

"I cleared your name." Lestrade continued clenching his fists, "Mycroft helped me. Everybody knows Moriarty was real, have done for years."

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, he sounded strange.

"I didn't do it for you." Lestrade spat, "I did it for John."

Sherlock looked up at the doctors name, his eyes were red.

"I had to do it." Sherlock croaked, "Moriarty, his snipers...he was going to have you all killed if I didn't. John, you, . I couldn't let that happen and then, if his people knew I'd faked it...they'd of come back and..."

Lestrade had never seen Sherlock so chocked up, something was wrong here. That's when the shock wore off enough for the inspectors training to kick in an he noticed only one of Sherlock's cuffs was done up.

Oh no.

"Sherlock, let me see your arm." Lestrade demanded.

The detective immediately stepped backwards and clutched his limb, he looked, frightened? That clinched it, ordinarily Sherlock would of at least offered the other arm first, feigning ignorance.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade growled and the detective relented and held out his arm.

Just as Lestrade suspected, he found a needle mark when he pushed the sleeve up.

"You selfish bastard!" Greg hissed, "Three years of-"

"No, I only...it was yesterday." Sherlock cut in, "Only one mark, see? I'm telling the truth!"

"Why then?" Lestrade asked coldly, "You spend three years disbanding Moriarty's network only to come home and shoot up again? Didn't John try and stop you? Wait, you said he passed out, you didn't just leave him on the floor did you?"

"No!" Sherlock recoiled.

"Gods Sherlock do you have any idea what you did to him?!"

Lestrade was expecting a cold reply about hoe it was necessary and logical, he did not expect Sherlock to crumble. The proud detective was on the floor with his head in his hands with a pained moan, Greg blinked in surprise. Then his brain caught up.

_'Sherlock has been away for three years. He cares about John more than anybody, everybody knows that and yet why is he here with you Greg? Obviously something happened between them!'_

"Sherlock? Why did you use again?" Lestrade knelt down in front of him.

"John hates me." Sherlock whispered, "I couldn't...he wishes I was dead..."

"He was angry Sherlock, hell, even I can't forgive you-"

He was about to say 'yet' but never got the chance as Sherlock was on his feet again and stumbling backwards toward the door again. He looked distraught, evidently Lestrade had said the wrong thing again.

"Hey, Sherlock wait!" Greg called but the detective was already out the door and running down the street.

"Sherlock!"

He'd never catch up and he knew it. Not knowing what else to do he fished his mobile out of his pocket and pressed in John's number.

-oOo-

_"Hell, even I can't forgive you"_

_"I can't forgive you."_

_"I can't forgive you."_

Those words bounced around in his skull until it became physically painful.

_"I can't forgive you."_

John hated him. Lestrade couldn't forgive him. It was too much. The only person he had left to try was Ms. Hudson and he couldn't bare that. The way she scolded him about forgetting other people's feelings, no doubt she'd hate him too.

He was back at the horrible hotel before he realized it, filling the needle again and stabbing it into the crook of his elbow. He didn't care anymore, if this was all he had,

so be it.

* * *

**So a reader had a question but no account so here is my answer.**

**Dear Confused: I had Sherlock go back to drugs because before John they were the only thing (Besides cases) that could distract his mind and make him happy. Part of Sherlock is just as human as everybody else and wants to be loved and cared for, the cocaine gives him a sort of artificial happiness when he couldn't have it for real. Once he started taking cases he felt people were impressed with him and that was enough to fill the hole and then John came along and made him happy even without solving cases. But now that he thinks both options (Cases and John's affection) are no longer open for him he has returned to drugs.**


	5. Captured

John practically dove for his phone when it began to ring, hitting the answer button before the second ring could even begin.

"Sherlock?" He answered hopefully.

"Sorry mate." Lestrade sighed, John's heart dropped.

"Sherlock was here though." Lestrade added and John felt his spirits sore marginally.

"Is he alright?" John asked quickly, "I've been looking for him everywhere Greg, tell me he's alright!"

Silence.

"Greg?" John whispered, "He is okay, right?"

"I don't think he is." Lestrade sighed, "He seemed wrecked, he practically started sobbing when I mentioned you, saying you hated him."

"I don't!" John shot back vehemently, "I need to see him! I said something I didn't mean that's all!"

"He certainly believes you meant it, he's crushed, he was on his knees." Lestrade sighed, "I tried talking to him but he ran off."

Lestrade's voice was strong and calculated, but there was something he wasn't telling the doctor, John could tell.

"What are you not saying?" John asked with a feeling of dread, "There is something you're not telling me."

"...He's using again."

John almost dropped his phone.

No.

He'd forced Sherlock to that? With three little words he'd pushed Sherlock back to drugs after years of being clean? God he was an awful friend, an awful person really. He must of moaned because Greg was soon trying to calm him.

"It was only one needle mark, if we find him quickly enough the withdrawal shouldn't be too bad."

"Mycroft is looking." John muttered.

"Good, don't worry John we'll bring him home and knock some sense into him."

"I hope so."

-oOo-

Even high Sherlock was no idiot, he knew Mycroft was looking for him. So for the next two weeks he never stayed in one place for long. He'd start the day the same though, wake up, shoot up and then enjoy having his brain buzzing for hours as he wandered through the streets. Sometimes he'd hallucinate scenes from his cases and start chasing criminals that weren't really there. He was aware of this, but even if they were only in his mind they still proved wonderful entertainment and pumped adrenaline through his veins.

Occasionally he'd see John running at his heels or by his side, those were the best. However, once he began to come down at the visions ceased he always found himself cold and alone in some unfamiliar place and it filled him with loneliness and agony until he had another hit.

Pretty soon though he was running low on funds and without his consulting business he had no way of making money. God knew he couldn't go to Mycroft or he'd be locked up in some institution.

He knew he could get away with stealing the cash he needed, or at least something of value to pawn off but unlike the last time he'd been doing this his moral compass stopped him. Every time he he found somebody to pick pocket he'd deduce their story, single father, just lost their job, collecting for charity. Always something to stop him from pinching their wallet or watch.

Damn John for making him so human! No matter how much cocaine he pumped into his blood stream he couldn't become the cold calculating machine he was just a few years ago.

So here he was, huddled under a bridge coming down from his latest high and becoming panicked as he had neither money or anymore drugs. Maybe he could hide the withdrawal symptoms well enough and ask Lestrade for the cash he needed, tell him it was for food or something. No, he'd never believe it, and most likely hand him over to Mycroft.

Lacking any better options he pulled his coat tighter around him and curled up on the ground trying to ignore his aching muscles. He wondered what John was doing right now, maybe making tea. Sherlock's stomach rumbled at the thought, he'd kill for tea, or cocaine, both really. As he'd spent most of his money on drugs he'd been eating less than he had been on the road. Usually he scarfed down a piece of bread or stale biscuits he could sneak from open windows or other, kinder, homeless people.

Darkly he wondered if he'd starve to death, he had little motivation to eat or drink anymore, he knew he was dehydrated. More likely it would either be his lack of liquid or sustenance that would do him in, rather than an over dose. The former detective found he didn't really care one way or the other, if he woke up tomorrow fine, if he didn't, fine again.

He was just about to slip into what would hopefully be another dream about being back at Baker street when he heard footsteps and then people were touching him, trying to wake him. He opened his eyes to find that somebody in a suit was helping him toward a black car, one of Mycroft's cars.

"No!" He yelled, "I am not going to Mycroft! Let me go!"

"Sorry sir, orders from on high." Another man replied as he shoved the thin detective into the car.

Once he was laying on the leather upholstery and the door closed Sherlock stopped fighting. Partly because he knew there was no point but mostly because the inside of the car was _warm _and it felt as if he'd forgotten what the feeling felt like after years of empty rooms and sleeping under bridges.

He decided it was best to sleep, seeings as he'd only be sedated once he reached Mycroft's house anyway. So he closed his eyes and filled his head with thoughts of home.

-oOo-

Only Sherlock could be so stupid. He was just as bad as Mycroft had dreaded he would be, pale, malnourished with track marks a plenty and sunken eyes surrounded by bruises muscle. He quickly had his people undress and bathe his brother, the water looked like mud by the time they finished but at least Sherlock was clean. If anything it made him look worse because his skin was so white. They dressed him in white flannels and placed him in the room Mycroft had set up not far from his own.

Sherlock stayed in an exhausted sleep for the entire time.

Grabbing his paperwork from his desk the politician settled down in the arm chair by the bed for the evening. He couldn't risk Sherlock waking up alone and making a run for it and he didn't want to restrain him physically yet. If he used the right words perhaps he could convince Sherlock to stay and get clean on his own free will.

A loud groan indicated Sherlock was indeed waking up, Mycroft was pleased to see his pupils were clear, it had been a while since his last hit then. His face twisted with anger when he saw his elder brother, just as he'd expected.

"Let me go." He rasped sitting up and placing a palm to his head.

_Dizziness, _Mycroft noted, _headache, trembling, sore muscles..._

"I am not about to let you go running off to destroy yourself." Mycroft replied curtly, "You are going to stay here until I believe you are not a danger to yourself."

"I don't want your help." Sherlock growled, "Why am I dressed in these clothes? They are three sizes too big!"

"Because your other ones were filthy and those clothes are the size that you should be, if he remembered to eat." Mycroft scolded, "How could you be so foolish! Running off like a child!"

Sherlock hissed but said nothing.

"I should call John and tell him you're here." Mycroft added and as expected that got a rise out of his brother.

"No! I don't want him here!"

_'I don't want him to see me like this.' _was the unspoken message.

"Very well." Sighed Mycroft, he had no problems forbidding John from the premise, it was the doctors fault Sherlock was like this in the first place.

"Glad we agree on something." Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Now Sherlock, if you get clean Lestrade will give you cases again." Mycroft tried, "You are proven innocent now, once you announce you are alive you will have all the cases you could dream of."

He could tell by the look on Sherlock face he was tempted.

"But no more cocaine." Mycroft ordered harshly, it made Sherlock flinched.

"But-"

"You beat it once you can do it again." He replied stiffly getting to his feet, "All the windows are shatter proof glass with deadlocks, the German kind. The door is locked and bolted from the outside and all sharp and or dangerous objects have been removed from the room. I have several security cameras set up as well so don't think of trying to run off again."

"You can read any of the books or watch any of the movies in here and if you want something specific knock on the door and one of my men will bring it to you. But no phone and no internet."

"I'm in the worlds most luxurious prison cell." Sherlock growled gripping the sheets.

"You put yourself here, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, "Do not make me tie you to the bed like last time. That was just as painful for me as it was for you."

"I doubt it."

* * *

**Sorry this chapter is more filler than everything, I'm half way through the next chapter and it's even making me a bit sad reading it. I dunno how you guys will fare... **


	6. Father

John was both praying for and dreading a call from Mycroft. Praying for one because it meant that Sherlock was found. Dreading because he had no idea what condition his friend might be in. Lestrade had finally seen John cracking himself and come to stay a few nights, he even took the time of work. It was a good thing he did because by the time the call actually came John was nearly at the end of his rope with worry.

"Mycroft!" John exclaimed into the phone, "Is he alright? You have found him right?"

"He is currently at my house." Mycroft replied cooly, "He is severely dehydrated, malnourished and sporting so many track marks the nurse couldn't find a good vein to use for the IV."

John squeezed his eyes closed in regret but he could feel Lestrade's eyes on him, they were burning into the back of his skull.

"He has begrudgingly agreed to get clean but I am still locking him in his room at my manor to be safe, the serious symptoms have not yet emerged but they will be within the next few hours."

"I'm coming to see him." John replied quickly with determination, "I'm a doctor I can help and I need to apolo-"

"He does not want you here." Mycroft interrupted, "I am inclined to agree with that decision."

"What?" John breathed.

"He has told me very specifically that you are not to come here." Mycroft replied cruelly, "He wants no more to do with you."

John felt the phone drop from his hand as he blinked back tears. Well of course Sherlock didn't want him around after what he said but he'd hoped he could at least explain in person.

"Jeez Mycroft what did you say to him?" Lestrade demanded, having apparently picked up the phone where the doctor had dropped it.

He listened for a few seconds.

"Well, could I come see him?" Lestrade asked finally, "I helped him the first time, I can do it again and I think it will give John peace of mind."

A few more hums and the inspector hung up.

John flopped down on the couch filled with so much self loathing he was surprised he didn't just burst into tears. It was all his fault.

_'He did everything possible to keep you safe and you rejected him. It's all your fault!' _The dark thoughts jabbed, _'He could of died!'_

"John?"

"I'm fine." John replied before he could stop himself, "I just...go make sure he's okay."

"I'll do my best to calm him down, once the worst is over he might let you come and see him." Lestrade supplied laying a hand on John's shoulder, "Once you guys can talk everything will be fine."

"You've been saying that for days." John moaned, "It's all my fault he's like this."

He placed his head in his hands. He was a solider for Gods sake he was supposed to protect people! He'd spent three years punishing himself for failing Sherlock the first time and making him jump but this was even worse.

"John..."

"It is. I swear, I'll move out and let him be as soon as I know he's healthy." John mumbled through his hands, "Now go help him."

"You wont have to. He'll see sense." Lestrade smiled, "Look after yourself okay, I'll be back in a few hours with news."

-oOo-

Lestrade was ushered into Mycroft large home, why a man who lived alone needed so many large rooms was beyond him. The whole place was quite heavily guarded with his people watching him from behind tinted glasses. The politician himself greeted him stiffly and lead him up the stairs to Sherlock's room.

"I'm afraid he's in a bad way." Mycroft sighed, "I'd not let anybody in but you were the one who convinced Sherlock to get clean the first time, perhaps he will find your presence soothing."

-oOo-

Sherlock hated his brother. He hated everybody, especially himself. Why had he agreed to this? This torture all over again, it wasn't worth it. His entire body was _screaming! _His muscles felt as if they were twisting and tearing inside his body and no matter how he moved it was agony. His head pounded and his stomach churned, it was like his entire body was being beaten over and over again and he just wanted it to stop!

And he could make it stop if only he had some cocaine and his needle! That was all he needed to make this pain go away and his brother wouldn't let him have it! He'd tried to escape an hour ago but now his body's aching had become too much and he was twisted up in the thin sheet on the bed.

He heard the soft click of somebody opening and closing the door as well as the dull thunk of the locks being replaced. He looked up, hoping to see Mycroft admitting that he was wrong and returning Sherlock's needle to him with some of his much needed drug but instead he saw Lestrade.

He meant to give a scathing remark but no witty words could get past the pounding in his skull. Instead, much to his mortification, his voice came out weak and raspy.

"Please." He begged, "I swear, just one more, tell Mycroft I promise I'll stop after that."

Lestrade sighed, he sounded disappointed. Sherlock hated that sound. He hated a lot of things at the moment.

"Why did you have to do this to yourself again?" Lestrade asked sitting in the chair by the bed where Sherlock was currently entangled.

Sherlock wanted to turn his back but found it too painful so he had to settle for turning his neck to face the other wall. He tensed when he felt the back of the inspectors hand on his forehead, he let his eyes close to enjoy the sensation. It was the first kind move anybody had given him in three years.

"You're burning up." He muttered, "Have you taken any paracetamol?"

"Threw it up." Sherlock croaked. God he just felt awful.

He heard Lestrade get up and grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom.

"Here, drink." He ordered, Sherlock groaned.

"I'll just bring it all up again." He mumbled, then winced as his head gave a particularly bad throb.

"Come on don't make me force you." Lestrade said wearily lifting Sherlock's head with one hand and lifting the glass to his lips with the other and gently pouring the liquid down the man's dry throat.

He got through most of the glass before he began to cough and splutter and Lestrade took it away. He curled up in a ball on his side and groaned.

"If you hadn't filled all your veins with cocaine they might of been able to use an IV drip." Lestrade scolded and Sherlock winced.

"You know, I've been staying with John the last few days." Lestrade added when Sherlock didn't reply.

Sherlock gripped his head tighter and groaned at the sound of John's name, the aching seemed to increase tenfold. Especially in his chest. He stifled a sob, God he was a mess the withdrawal was messing with his head, making his emotions bubble to the surface. What he wouldn't give for John to be here now looking after him. But at the same time, he didn't think he could handle the hatred and disgust that would be on the older mans face when he saw Sherlock in such a state.

"He wants to come and see you." Greg added, that made Sherlock scramble upwards into the sitting position.

"He does?" Sherlock breathed.

"Of course." Lestrade smiled moving to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

_'He wants to rub it in your face how weak you are.' _his brain reminded him, _'You don't deserve him anyway. He is better off without you, he thinks so too.'_

Sherlock whimpered and closed his eyes.

"He hates me." He whispered, "Everybody does eventually, nobody ever stays."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in shock when he felt warm arms pulling his back against Lestrade's chest in a hug. If he weren't so addled and pain stricken he'd of rejected the act but it felt safe and warm so he stayed. Still wide eyed.

"You idiot." Lestrade sighed softly, "John's been worried sick, he's been looking for you for weeks. He was crushed when Mycroft told him he couldn't see you."

"I don't want him seeing me like this.' Sherlock hissed, "he'll be...angry. Disappointed in me. Just like you and Mycroft."

"Trust me, he hates himself more than he could ever hate you." Lestrade reassured him.

Sherlock was trembling, whether it was because of the withdrawal or the emotions Lestrade didn't know but he knew better than to comment on it.

"You should eat." He said finally, "I swear it's like I'm holding a xylophone in pajamas."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Come on, I know your stomach hurts but just try some of the soup Mycroft put in the room."

He shook his head again, slower this time and closed his eyes.

Not that he would of ever admitted it to Lestrade but he'd always had a sort of parental bond with the man. His parents had never been around, especially his father. He was always out of the country and his mother was always to self obsessed to pay any attention to her offspring. Until Lestrade, Mycroft had been the closest thing he had to a father.

He knew once he was himself again he'd be mortified knowing he fell asleep in the inspectors arms but right now it was just enough to distract him from the pain.

* * *

**Finally the comfort is coming in :P**

**I've got the next chapter all planned, cookies to anybody who can guess right!**


	7. Nightmares

Sherlock went limp and his breathing evened out slowly, Lestrade held him until he was sure he was really asleep before gently placing him back on his pillows. His fever was still climbing which was bad, the detective was practically radiating heat. Lacking any better ideas he grabbed a damp flannel from the bathroom and placed it over Sherlock's forehead. Damn this was really John's territory.

He wondered how the doctor was doing in the time he'd been gone, it had passed so quickly without him even realizing. He'd better give the man some news.

"Greg!" John answered before the first ring had even finished, "How is he doing? Have you managed to get him to eat or drink? His body needs all the help it can get to fight withdrawal and Mycroft said he was malnourished and dehydrated-"

"Woah, slow down." Greg replied, "I couldn't get him to eat but I managed to get him to drink some water and keep it down. Though at this rate he'll probably just sweat it out within the next ten minutes."

"His fever is bad then." John muttered, "Try to cool him down."

"John, Mycroft has nurses here to take care of him, he'll be just fine."

"But he's not fine at the moment!" John insisted.

Sherlock groaned and turned over in the bed.

"What was that?" John asked, Greg could practically feel the panic through the phone, "Is he okay?"

"His fever is climbing I should get Mycroft." Lestrade explained but apparently he was heard because no sooner had the words left his mouth then the man himself had entered followed by a nurse and drip.

"You might be able to get a drip into him if it's been a few days since his last use." John continued, unaware that this was no longer a private conversation.

Before Greg could reply the phone was away from his ear and in the hand of the elder Holmes.

"This are under control, Dr. Watson." He said simply, "You services are no longer required."

He hung up without another word.

"Mycroft!" Greg scolded, "The man is a mess you could at least be gentle with him!"

Apparently despite being unconscious Sherlock disagreed with the new amount of noise in his room became he moaned again and twisted himself further into his sheets. The nurse managed to get him to hold still long enough to take his temperature, just.

"He needs to be cooled down and he needs liquids." She reported, "He's not sweating enough."

It took her some time but eventually the IV line was hooked up, John was right then. Unfortunately it did nothing to stop Sherlock frantic twisting and turning.

"We'll have to restrain him." Mycroft sighed reaching into his pocket and bringing out four thick leather ties with buckles, "Hold him down, I'll do it."

Greg hated it when Mycroft was right but he had no choice. Sherlock really was going to hurt himself at this rate, he'd almost pulled out his IV twice in the short period since it had been placed. The leather circles were placed around his wrists and ankles and the fastened to the sides of the mattress, essentially pinning Sherlock's arms beside him but that didn't stop him from pulling and struggling all the more.

"Let me go!" He growled deliriously, "Let me go!"

Lestrade was amazed at how quickly things could turn to shit, only fifteen minutes ago he'd had Sherlock asleep in his arms.

-oOo-

He was hot.

That was really all his brain could deduce. He was hot and he wanted to not be hot. He felt like he was being smothered by blankets inside an active volcano!

Then there were voices and he was being held down.

No! How dare they!? He struggled but his limbs had turned to cooked spaghetti and soon he was completely pinned.

"Let me go!" He growled, "Let me go!"

They were going to try and get information from him. But he wouldn't break no mater what they did. He wouldn't tell them anything!

-oOo-

Sherlock continued to writher and groan in obvious pain but they found they could do nothing. Mycroft had tried to calm him but it had resulted in Sherlock screaming and trying his best to wriggle away from the man.

"Stay away from me!"

"Sherlock-"

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes! He's dead!"

Lestrade and Mycroft shared a glance bother thinking the same thing; Sherlock had never mentioned that he'd been tortured in his absence.

He stopped talking after that for a while, he didn't stop whimpering though and tugging at his restraints.

"Please Mycroft?" he pleaded, this time with his eyes open. It seemed the delusions had cleared momentarily.

"In two days time you will be yourself again." Mycroft sighed, "You are not getting another fix."

"Please?" He rasped again, "I can't do this, I'm sorry I can't. Please!"

Sherlock Holmes was begging for mercy, Lestrade thought he'd never see the day.

"We should get John to come and see him." Lestrade spoke up, "They both want to see each other, it's obvious and John will help him to stay calm."

"It is John Watson's fault for letting his emotions get out of hand in the first place." Mycroft growled, "Had he better control my bother wouldn't be here right now."

"Sherlock was the one who pumped drugs into his veins, not John." Lestrade reminded him, "He regrets what he said, he wants to see Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock moaned.

"See?" Lestrade waved a hand at Sherlock who had slipped back into semi-consciousness.

"If he says something to upset Sherlock again he could give up completely." Mycroft argued.

"No, 'm not sick, John." Sherlock mumbled stuck in the world of dreams once more, "lemme out of bed..."

"Just give him a chance." Lestrade sighed, pushing back Sherlock's sweaty curls so they were out of his face causing Sherlock's eyes to flicker open.

"'strade?" He muttered, "where'd John go? He was here a second ago..."

"John wasn't here, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, "You're fever is confusing you again."

"Oh." Sherlock's face screwed up, "That's right, the drugs...John doesn't like me anymore..."

"He does." Lestrade insisted, "We can bring him here you know."

Sherlock looked conflicted but then again, he couldn't really think straight with his body roasting at 39 degrees Celsius. He moaned and tried to roll over but yelped when the restraints cut into his skin. He reminded the inspector of a child. Despite the fever fogging them, Lestrade could see the fear and desperation shining in the mans eyes. Finally the fever won the battle and Sherlock sunk down once more.

-oOo-

Sherlock was back in Baker Street and it was hot. It was very hot. Why didn't John turn on the air conditioning? Sherlock watched as the wall paper began to melt all around him in the extreme heat. He went to turn on the ac or open a window but found he couldn't move, he discovered why when he looked down at his feet, which were submerged in the sticky melted carpet. Wait, that didn't even make sense!

"You okay there Sherlock?" John asked from the doorway.

"John!" Sherlock smiled, "John get me out of here, I'm stuck!"

The ground began to sink further and further like quicksand, he was up to his knees now.

"Why should I?" John asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Because I'll suffocate if I sink under all this!" Sherlock replied feeling slightly panicked, "I'll die!"

"So?" John shrugged, "You've been dead to me for three years now Sherlock, it wont make much difference."

He was stuck up to his waist now. He struggled but that only made things worse, the goo was going from a mix of different colours from Baker Street to inky black.

"John, please!" The heat was really getting to him now and the goo was almost at his neck, "Just pull me out!"

"Can't you look after yourself for a change?" John sighed, "I'm sick of being your keeper."

"I thought we were friends, please." Sherlock begged, it was getting hard to breath now with the black goo clinging to his face and the oppressive heat weighing down on him.

"We were never friends, who'd want to be friends with a freak like you?" John sneered, "Just die already!"

The black goo completely submerged him and he could feel it seeping into his mouth, he couldn't breathe! He opened his mouth to yell but nothing came out.

_"Just die already!"_

_-oOo-_

Lestrade had decided to stay the night with Sherlock since Mycroft still refused to allow John in to see him. He was about to nod off in his chair when Sherlock began to yell and writhe on the bed, shocking him awake.

It was a good thing he was still restrained or he would of hurt himself struggling the way he was now. The yelling was terrible, he was practically screaming.

"Sherlock! Sherlock wake up!" He yelled trying to hold him down by the shoulders, "It's just a nightmare!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jerked as if he were going to sit up but the restraints held him down. In his fever driven half awake state this seemed to make things worse because he kept struggling until Lestrade finally managed to undo the leather around his wrists and he was able to sit up.

The poor guy looked panicked, his eyes were blown wide, he was panting like he'd just run a mile and he was trembling terribly. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms were at their best right now, another day or so and Sherlock would be fine but it pained Greg to see him this way.

He let Sherlock rest his head against his shoulder, he could hear him whimpering and trying not to beg from his cocaine again.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to bring John here, no matter what Mycroft says, is that okay?" Lestrade asks softly.

Sherlock tensed and for a moment Greg feared he was going to reject the offer but eventually he nodded.

* * *

**I meant to upload this yesterday but I got busy, I spent the last 16 hours having a movie marathon and then we all went for laser tag. My bad :P**

**One of my friends told me to ask if it's true only Australians have Tim Tams? It's chocolate covered chocolate! I though America would have them! My mates and I always play the Tim Tam Slam when we have them!**


	8. Reunited

"Mycroft Holmes you will give me my damned phone!" Lestrade yelled in frustration. He'd been about to call John when once again the British government hd appeared out of nowhere and snatched the phone from his palm.

"I will not have that man upsetting my brother again!" Mycroft growled.

"For fuck's sake Mycroft, will you look at him?" Lestrade demanded pointing a finger at the man on the bed, "He can't get any worse! He's given up already!"

It was true, after all the yelling and screaming of yesterday Sherlock had become quiet and still. Lestrade found it even worse than the screaming. He just laid there with his eyes half open, staring at whatever happened to be in front of him.

"He's practically catatonic!" Lestrade continued, "He wont eat, he wont drink, hell, he'd be dead right now if it wasn't for the IV drips!"

That made Mycroft flinch.

After he'd recovered from the nightmare last night Lestrade had once again lowered him back down onto his pillows and redone the restraints. Though it seemed they were not needed anymore since Sherlock had done little more than blink the last eight hours.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called sitting down on the side of the bed, "Lockie, I need you to show you can hear me."

Sherlock didn't move, he just kept staring at the wall.

"Come on Sherlock," Lestrade tried, "You can't just give up now."

Still nothing.

Lestrade checked the man's vitals once again, the nurse had quit after Sherlock's last rage. They were getting slower and slower.

"Mycroft he's fading." Lestrade muttered, "His heart rate is slower, his breathing is shallower...his body is just too weak and he's not fighting anymore."

"This is all-"

"Blaming John wont get us anywhere, now let me call him!" Lestrade growled, "We've been trying to talk to Sherlock all morning and it's gotten us nowhere!"

Mycroft bit his lip, a very strange look on the face of somebody usually so calm.

"Fine."

-oOo-

John had been in this position many times in the past three years. Sitting on his bed, still dressed in his night clothes with his gun sitting in his palm. He'd spent the last day worrying constantly about Sherlock. Withdrawals could be fatal, especially if the body was weak, which Sherlock's surely was. Why wouldn't anybody tell him anything!

Lestrade had barely given him any information and for all he knew Sherlock really could be dead right now.

_'It'd be all your fault too. You drove him away.'_

_'All he wanted to do was keep you safe. This is your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!'_

He was barely aware that he'd slicked the safety off his gun. It was as if his mind had come back online when he heard the click, suddenly realizing he had the barrel pointing right at his head. Quickly he threw the gun across the room, ignoring how dangerous the acting was.

He had to wait until he knew Sherlock was okay, then...then he could go through with it. Once he knew Sherlock was safe and on the road to recovery it would be alright for him to leave. It wasn't as if the detective would want him around after that.

Suddenly he realized his breathing wasn't the only sound in the flat.

His phone was ringing.

He practically fell on it and answered.

"John it's Sherlock-"

_Oh God..._

"He's not doing so well, you need to come see him."

"I can see him?" John breathed feeling both dread and joy.

"It's like he's just given up," Lestrade admitted, "He wont eat or drink...he wont even talk, half the time I don't think he can hear us."

"I'll be right there." John replied already pulling on his jumper and jeans, these last three weeks had been worse than the three years for him.

"Mycroft's place, I'll meet you at the door."

-oOo-

John practically flew up the stairs to Mycroft's insanely huge house, the stairs barely touched his shoes soles. He burst through the front doors to hard he actually knocked Lestrade to the ground. Normally he'd help him up but not today, today he needed to see Sherlock.

"Where is he? Which room?" He asked quickly glancing about.

"John, calm down. You wont help anybody rushing around like a chicken with your head cut off." Lestrade grumbled getting to his feet.

"He probably wont help anybody regardless." Mycroft's cool voice cut in.

"Where is he?" John asked, "It's my fault he's-"

"Yes it is."

"But I need to see him!"

Mycroft waved him up and Lestrade followed.

"Don't listen to him, John. He's just angry." Lestrade whispered.

"He has every right to blame me." John replied, "He's only being protective."

"Alright, there is food and water on the tray by the bed, see if you can convince him to eat something. That's if he responds at all."

Lestrade gave him a small smile and headed off down the hall, John was thankful for the privacy. Taking a deep breath he twisted the handle and entered the room keeping his eyes on the ground until he could look up.

Sherlock was laying in the middle of a bed with white sheets in flannels. He was pale and drawn, his bones were sticking out far too much, his head was turned to the side staring at the wall, he didn't react to John entreating the room. It was such a rapid difference from the bright, energetic detective John knew three years ago.

_'You did this to him'_

He shook his head to dispatch the self loathing thoughts, his feelings weren't important now. Lestrade was right, next to Sherlock's bed was a table containing a pitcher of water, glasses and two bowls of soup. He picked up the water and quickly filled one of the glasses before sitting down on the bed beside Sherlock.

Gently he turned Sherlock's face toward him.

"Sherlock?" He whispered brokenly, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The younger mans eyes were glazed and dull, no wit or light left in them and it made John want to cry at the sight. Then, as if somebody had hit a switch within the geniuses brain the eyes focused and widened slowly.

"John?" Sherlock breathed.

The doctor couldn't help but smile a little.

"Yeah." He replied softly, "I'm here."

Sherlock looked as if he were about to sit up but he winced and slide back into the pillows, confused John raised the sheets and felt his heart break a little to see the restraints. Without asking he carefully undid the leather from Sherlock's wrist and peeled it back off the skin as gently as he could. Sherlock had obviously struggled a great deal, the skin was red, bloody and completely shredded in places, no wonder he was in pain.

Gently he continued the process with the other wrist and ankle bonds, finding much the same results. Sherlock was silent save a few whimpers as the leather tugged at the sensitive skin.

John then quickly located the First Aid kit and fished out some white bandages and soothing cream. He applied the cream as soothingly as possible and then bandaged the mans wrists and ankles.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He whispered, "I'm sorry for what I said and I'm so sorry they had to do this to you."

Slowly, Sherlock sat up against his pillows, he was too thin and gaunt it made John feel like he was looking at a ghost.

"Why...are you here?" He asked finally, not meeting John's eyes.

"I'm sorry, I know you probably don't want me here." He replied, "I wanted to make sure you were okay and I've been so worried-"

"Worried?" Sherlock questioned, "I thought...I thought you wanted me to..."

"No!" John jumped up from the bed so fast it made Sherlock jump, "I've spent three years wishing you would come back! It's all I've wanted for so long."

"But you said..."

Sherlock finally looked up and while there were no tears John could see the grey orbs shining. He couldn't take it, the guilt was suffocating him!

-oOo-

He'd retreated into his mind for some time it seemed. He didn't feel like fighting anymore, he couldn't make his body fight for life. Then John's face had appeared and he was here, talking and mending his wounds. Then saying he was sorry.

When he'd finally looked up at the man he'd crumbled, suddenly he was back on the bed with his arms wrapped lightly around Sherlock's neck and his face buried in his neck.

"I didn't mean it. I never meant it. God I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry." He sobbed.

Sherlock was completely taken back, he couldn't even return the gesture. Lestrade had been right? John really had been looking for him all this time? He focused on John's voice again as he was still talking even though Sherlock had stopped listening.

"This is all my fault. All my fault, I'm so sorry."

"You really have been worried." Sherlock deduced, not that it was difficult, John pulled back so that they were facing each other.

"Yes, I've been worried sick."

"So you...do want me to come home then?" Sherlock asked, he felt nerves pile up inside his chest.

"Of course, I mean, that's if you want to." John smiled weakly, "I'll understand if you want me to leave after all I've done, you can keep Baker street of course."

"I want you to stay." Sherlock replied before John had even finished speaking. John smiled but his eyes were still sad.

"You need to eat." He said finally picking up the bowl of watery broth from the tray and holding it up for Sherlock to drink, he turned away.

"Sherlock, can you even remember the last time you ate well?" John sighed, "Now please."

John tipped the lukewarm soup gently into his mouth and before he could think he'd finished the entire bowl and was still ravenous. John didn't even ask, simply grabbed the other bowl and held it up to the detectives lips. This one was thicker, something creamy, pumpkin was the most likely. After that he managed a full glass of water before sinking back down into the pillows and relaxing, he hadn't felt this full in years.

He sighed contently as John placed his palm over his forehead.

"You're still warm but I don't think it's anything to worry about." He hummed, "The withdrawal will be over soon, you'll probably sleep for most of it."

Sherlock forced his eyes open again.

"You're not going to tie me down again are you?" He croaked, his wrists were still sore despite the bandages.

"No." John promised taking the leather and tossing them across the room to prove a point.

"...And you'll, stay?" Sherlock asked shyly, "When I'm asleep, so you'll still be here when I wake up?"

He hated how childish it sounded but he couldn't think of a better way to put things, his brain was still muddled.

"If that's what you want." John replied pushing the other mans dark curls back just as he had in the dream he'd had back in the alley.

Sherlock slept.


	9. Epilogue

When Sherlock awoke the first thing he noticed was that for the first time in days there was no biting pain in his wrists and ankles. They throbbed, but it was the kind of hurt that came with healing. He fluttered his eyes open and found John asleep, kneeling on the floor using Sherlock's mattress as a pillow.

Sherlock sighed, the withdrawal was over but he still felt particularly weak and frail much to his chagrin. He wondered if he should wake his doctor but it seemed he didn't have a choice, the shifting sheet must of stirred him because soon John was yawning and blinking awake as well.

Sherlock tried to greet him but instead of John's name all that came out was a croak.

"You need water." John surmised quickly bringing over the glass before hurriedly preparing some more soup for Sherlock to eat once he'd downed the liquid. Sherlock tried to speak after drinking but John immediately pushed the bowl of soup to his lips and practically forced it down his throat. Sherlock was ravenous though, so he didn't mind.

"Do you want some more?" John asked quickly, "You're warm enough right? Maybe I should ask Mycroft for some more blankets you look cold-"

"John, stop it." Sherlock sighed with an air of annoyance, "I know you are stalling because you fear I will be angry and tell you to leave if you let me get a word in."

John flinched.

"I'm not sorry for what I did." Sherlock mumbled, "But I am sorry it hurt you."

"Don't." John chocked, sounding so much like he did on the other end of a phone three years ago.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing." He continued, "I didn't mean-"

"John, you've already said so, many times." Sherlock smiled weakly, "When Lestrade told me I didn't believe him and even if I had I was sure you'd hate me for...relapsing."

"I drove you to it." John muttered, "After all you'd been through to keep us all safe, it's my fault. I pushed you."

They sat in silence for a while before Sherlock decided he desperately needed a shower. He'd been in bed for days. Unfortunately he forgot that meant his legs were sore from disuse and immediately collapsed upon trying to stand only to be cause by John.

"Careful." John chided, "The withdrawal is over but your body is weak, that happens when you don't eat or drink properly for three years."

There was a hint of humor in John's words that made Sherlock smile. Things would be okay.

"John, can we go home now?" Sherlock asked finally, he wanted nothing more than to be at home once more, at Baker street. With John.

"We should get some more food into you first, a few days rest until your strength is back." John replied, "Then we can go home."

Sherlock sighed with an air of annoyance but yielded anyway, he was tired.

"John?" he tried again."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"When we do go home, can you make risotto?"

-oOo-

A few days later Sherlock had gained back some of his lost weight but eating near constantly, obviously making up for three years of starving in one go. This of course resulted in a few trips to empty his stomach in the bathroom. But John stayed with him the entire time, pushing his hair back and rubbing circles on his back.

Being back a Baker Street was surreal. For the first few days the two lived on Chinese take out while they watched old Bond films and Doctor Who re-runs. It was domestic and dull but it was something Sherlock had missed.

It was wonderful, being cared for, feeling loved. A few years ago he'd of shrugged it off but now, now he wouldn't give it up for the world.


End file.
